


Iliad

by cognomen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Sexual Slavery, dubcon referenced - not between main pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time Will meets the soldier, they are both waiting obediently in the antichamber where those such as they should. Will is the only one bare of weapons, bare of foot, and he feels naked and known beneath the stares of the Trojans. </i>
</p><p>  <i>He cannot understand why Menelaus has brought him and bade him sit, save for some distant notion that to subjugate something so beautiful indicates a power. Menelaus wants to look at least as powerful as he is, displaying Will as a sort of dagger.</i></p><p>  <i>With the rough soldier's eyes on him, he feels a deeply inadequate blade.</i> </p><p>A retelling of the origins of the Trojan War, featuring Hannibal and Will in the place of Paris and Helen. This piece written as part of the Hannibal-ACCA charity drive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Helen reviews the Champions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Entity_Sylvir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entity_Sylvir/gifts).



The first time Will meets the soldier, they are both waiting obediently in the antichamber where those such as they should. Will is the only one bare of weapons, bare of foot, and he feels naked and known beneath the stares of the Trojans. 

He cannot understand why Menelaus has brought him and bade him sit, save for some distant notion that to subjugate something so beautiful indicates a power. Menelaus wants to look at least as powerful as he is, displaying Will as a sort of dagger.

With the rough soldier's eyes on him, he feels a deeply inadequate blade.

Only one does not look, nor leer, nor menace him until he feels he should scramble for cover behind the two of Menelaus' honorguard left behind. 

He is eating an apple instead, sitting comfortably upon the wooden bench on the window sill. The soldier slices the flesh thinly with a knife at risk of injury, pulling the blade through each piece until the point of it rests against the pad of his thumb.

The apple is green and bright, smelling sweet and sharp in the tense room, harmonic somehow with the anxious mood. The soldier is sticky to the elbow with running juice, though he ignores it. 

The motion is calm, deliberate, repetetive. Will finds himself hypnotized. A cut, a slow slide while the apple revolves against the knife, and then he lifts the sliver to his mouth. It disappears between dark, generous lips. The soldier's thoughts drift elsewhere, locked behind his dark and distant eyes. the knife flashes near his face when he lifts it, a hint of white sharp teeth as he takes the flesh within his mouth, and then his jaw works slowly.

Will watches him as if he 's never seen a man eat an apple. 

The green skin disappears slowly, leaving the apple pale against the soldier's dark fingers - tan, alive, vivid from a harder life than Will's. The flesh of the fruit is startlingly light against the bronze blade of the knife. 

It is with the last thick, uneven sliver of apple on the knife that the soldier seems to come back to himself. He finds Will watching him with the knife nearly completing its last circuit toward his mouth, the piece of apple balanced along the flat of the blade.

He pauses, then extends the knife toward Will, an offering.

Will becomes aware of how the wooden floor had been hurting his knees only when he lifts himself off them. 

Menelaus' guards shift behind him when he moves, but they do not try to forbid him from doing so. Will crosses the room without being wholly certain of his intention.

The soldier does not leer at him or revoke his offering, holding his hand out patiently. The man's fellows watch only in mild interest now, having taken Will's measure and dismissed him for it. An expensive pet.

When he reaches for the fruit, the soldier lifts the knife slowly, but does not pull it away.

"With your mouth," the man orders, but it is not - wholly - unkind. Not a jeer, but a return of the curiosity Will had displayed.

His eyes are dark, dangerous, but with no imminent promise of violence held within.

Will leans down slowly, the soldier lifts the knife. He takes the offered bite of apple from the back of the blade with his mouth, aware of the others watching. They never stop looking at each other, the soldier and he.

He smiles when Will claims his prize, and lifts the core of the apple to clean the last edible bits from it with his teeth as Will chews. The fruit is tart, but not unpleasantly so. It leaves his mouth wet, his molars cutting the flesh cleanly between them. It's good.

"Thank you," Will tells the Trojan soldier, and earns a second sly smile, with the soldier's mouth pressed half hidden against the apple core.

The spell is broken between them when the day's negotiations conclude, and will must retreat, obedient and quiet to Menelaus' side, a pretty decoration to be seen.

The soldier stands tall amongst his fellows, attentive. The apple core is hidden in one hand behind his back. He watches Will go. At the door, while Will holds it for Menelaus, Agamemnon and their guards, Will risks a look back to find the dark eyes still on him.

-

That night Menelaus commands Will wait upon him, and he finds himself soothing the man's temper. There are knots down the powerful back, in all the muscles along the king's spine. Will makes agile his fingers, as he sits slung over the king's hips, his eyes downcast into his work.

Since Menelaus had picked him, Will has found himself with a curious sort of invisibility. In his younger days, he had courted others without thinking about it, his beauty drew the eye and held it, and suitors would come with gifts, with promises, at times with violence. Now he could exist, and did, on the fringes of awareness, as a pretty piece of furniture might.

It was as if, in being known to serve a specific function, he had become unable and unaware of all others.

"Their terms are unreasonable," Agamemnon does not share much countanence with his brother.

Menelaus is powerful, but barrel chested, broad, but not quite a warrior. His face is capable of great expression, great duplicity. Will knows the truth behind his joviality, the slow fury that simmers behind his mask to appear when one least expects it. 

Agamemnon is wholly a warrior, suited to his General's positions in all stripes of his build and demeanor. He does not lie with his face, he commands with it. 

Will works and listens. 

"They are terms," Menelaus answers, mildly. Will can feel his voice through his fingertips. "The first the Trojans have offered. We can, perhaps, have words enough to make them reasonable."

Agamemnon works his fingers over the bronze pommel of his long dagger and looks at the immobile bulk of his brother's back. Will has learned their quarrels mean little - they work as a mind making logic against itself, but strike as one fist.

"They have come to have the measure of us," he says at last.

Beneath him, Menelaus shifts, and Will realizes he has grown remiss. He lifts his hands and begins the work of making Menelaus' shoulders soft, though the joints in his fingers ache with the repetitive motion.

Menelaus is supine on the hard, low bench. Will cannot see the look he gives his brother. He knows the scope of it, having seen enough of Menelaus' blue eyes that he can almost feel the satisfaction gathering in Menelaus when the king has the taste of his own answer to give it.

"Then we will give them such a measure as to remind them how very short they fall," Menelaus answers. "If they come without seeking peace in earnest, what Sparta will show them should leave them pissing on their own sandals."

Agamemnon's eyes are as blue as his brother's, but unchangeable. Will risks a glance up to see how their General likes the idea, and finds him showing his teeth.

"Does that satisfy you, brother?" Menelaus' voice drops into his chest. "Because the lives of men are not wholly toys for the gods, I will sue hard to make this pact. But, do not let them think we will not play, either, for fear of a few lost pieces."

Will keeps himself steely, quiet. He cannot involve himself, he is only here by virtue of his position - because he is beneath consideration. He would not risk Menelaus' ire by dispelling the illusion he was an object.

"It suits me," Agamemnon allows, after a pause.

Menelaus shifts his hips beneath Will's, and he knows he has suited his purpose perhaps more than he intended. Not more than was _expected_. 

"Then make it happen, General. Be sure the watch is strict, the guards visisble. Move the training army to the fields closest to the palace - they can see the north parade grounds quite clearly from their quarters."

Agamemnon takes his dismissal for what it is, leaving Menelaus alone with his thoughts - and Will.

The king turns over slowly beneath him, and Will lifts himself obediently to facilitate. The thick cotton of the king's toga is gathered at his waist, but does not hide his erection under it's purple trimmed weight. 

Will keeps his eyes down when Menelaus reaches for him, and spares himself any of the king's rage by simply obeying the commands as given.

Menelaus has never demanded the mastery of Will's thoughts - perhaps he is unaware that Will even has them. He has never noticed when Will's mind has wandered elsewhere as he served. 

The king's eyes are blue, his skin aristocratic and fair. He is soft, but not weak.

If Will's mind turns to dark eyes, adept, agile fingers and a flashing knife when he lowers his mouth in service, there is no punishment for his failure. He has never yet been commanded to think.

-

The palace is empty and quiet so late at night. Will passes the carpeted halls into the gymnasium, the tiled floor cool on the bare, soft soles of his feet.

He has never minded Menelaus' insistence that he bathed every day - in truth it is nearly Will's only time alone. It is easy to feel the need to get clean when Menelaus has done with him. Sweat wrung from his body dries, leaves his skin to feel oily.

Perhaps that is as much the man's touch on him. Menelaus rarely has a mind for Will's pleasure, content to take his own. It pleases the king to send his slave away untouched and desperate. Will dares not say anything. He has no rights, not even for the comforts of release.

He strips bare at the bath's edge, eyes only for the faintly rippling, clean surface. In the daytime, the baths were full of bodies. Indolent, reclined. Statesmen, advisors, senators - all relaxed to speak business while slaves attended their pleasures.

The water helps, cooling the fire in his veins, sloughing the memory of touches off his skin. 

Will did not come during the day. He was not so common a slave as to carry food or wash backs. 

Instead he comes when they are empty, and slips under the water, diving deep until he is wet to the top of his head. It is cool, the water - refreshing.

Unwelcome touches slide from his skin and the memory of the taste of apple wakes on his tongue when the water pushes against his closed eyelids. Crisp. Alive. Today there is no deeper ache to attend. Menelaus had been to tired to complete the deed as he had taken to recently. The water eases the soreness from his arms, and he surfaces grateful, relieved of an onerous burden.

As his head breaks the surface of the water, he is surprised to find another form in the bath.

Dark eyes watch him from the far corner, and Will startles. Water splashes, the sound echoes melodious in the tiled chamber. 

The soldier smiles, apologetic. He is sitting quiet and soaking in the shadowed corner of the expansive bathing pool, his arms lifted to stretch along the edges. He is bare, as Will is, slick and wet. 

The soldiers has the muscles of his kind, well formed arms, a muscled chest. He is touched beneath with hair at the joins of them, and it is strangely that which feels most intimate about this. The soldier's chest has a wet tangle of it, thinning over the relaxed belly into a dark line leading down. Inviting.

Will does not follow the road with his eyes, lifting his own to meet the other man's instead.

He is aware, looking into the promises in those dark depths, of his unfulfillment. Of an aching desire for release. 

Had the soldier seen him climb into the bath? Did dark eyes watch every inch of his body?

"Did I surprise you?" the Trojan's voice is rich. Accented. He does not speak Sparta's Greek.

"Yes," Will sees no reason to lie, and no way to do so convincingly. He sinks lower in the water, covering more of himself.

At his sudden modesty, the soldier smiles. His eyes flick over what is revealed of Will anyway, appreciating him. Tasting something illicit, but stopping short of the line. 

"Am I forbidden?" The voice gets lower, grows husky at the thought of such dangerous fruit. The promise makes Will shiver in the water's cool embrace. The eyes on him make him wish for a warmer one.

"The baths? No," Will tells him.

"To touch?" the soldier asks.

Will swallows, answering quietly, "Yes."

The soldier rolls his shoulders slowly in answer, a smile on his features. It had been worth it to him, asking.

"But we are not forbidden to speak," this, the man sounds sure of. There is no question in it.

Will shakes his head. He does not know what they might speak about, a Trojan soldier and a Spartan slave. 

He does not offer anything. Instead he retrieves a hard cake of soap from the upturned pearlescent abalone shell in which it rests, and works it through his hair, over the worst of the grime on his body.

"Were you born here?" The soldier persists, watching and making absent ripples in the water with his fingers. 

It is so innocent and so unusual a question that Will finds himself answering.

"I was born here," he agrees, rinsing his hair beneath the stream of water that pours from a stone lion's open mouth into one side of the pool. "My mother was mad."

He isn't certain why he recounts the fantastic details of his birth to the soldier, staying as far as he can from the man. Perhaps because the Trojan waits patiently for him to elaborate, as if there is nothing more interesting for him to do than to listen to a slave.

"She said there was a swan," he continues, soap bubbles sliding through is fingers, down his back. "That the bird fathered me on her."

"A very handsome swan," the soldier observes, and Will turns over his shoulder to see if the man is jesting.

There is seriousness and just a little mischief in the soldier's eyes. A hunting cat's more than that of a jeering man. It has been some time since anyone has looked at Will in that way. 

Possession and commonality have faded his beauty to the eyes of all who are allowed to see him. Menelaus had remembered his beauty only as a tool to use - and Will could almost laugh to see it work so well. The old wonder sat low in the soldier's eyes, a sparkle in the blackness that suggested an awe of Will's beauty that Will had almost forgotten could exist.

"Did you hatch from an egg?" the soldier asks, his tone gentling the joke.

Will laughs, steps from beneath the flowing water. It strokes down his back with a loving touch. Will does his best not to shiver at it, the depth of his longing for intimacy a surprise to him. He rarely thinks of anything but escaping his tedious minutes with Menelaus.

"Perhaps I did," Will answers, teasing, pleased with the game. 

The rest of the story is less fanciful. It is simple, painful reality. A mad, beggar mother - though pretty enough perhaps to have some claim to her beautiful get. The only thing of worth in her possession a beautiful boy. A valuable asset, with the right tasks set to him. Will remembers little of his mother but dark hair, dark eyes unlike his own.   
She wore swan's pinions at her wrists, as if someday she might learn to fly.

It didn't matter. Will does not know if she even yet lives. If her mind has enough permanence even to remember him.

The soldier is still watching him, studying the long lines of Will's body intently.

"You would have made a very tragic omelette," the soldier observes, wryly. He is amused with hmself.

Will laughs genuinely and it is a surprisingly good sensation. He does not often laugh, he is not often expected to be so engaged. 

"I suppose I might have," Will agrees, finally lifting himself from the water. He enjoys this, perhaps too much for it to be truly safe. Menelaus will notice if Will lingers over-long.

He works himself dry on the fine cotton towel, enjoying the roughness of the fabric against his skin.

"What do you think of the training soldiers beneath your window?" Will asks, gathering the towel loosely at his waist. 

The soldier still hasn't moved, content to soak himself in the cool water past prudency. He sits in the shadowed corner of the bath, beneath the overhang of green vines cultivated along one wall. It is a sumptuous curtain, at times used to cover such indiscretions as the bathing pool invited.

"They are not so fine to look at as Spartan consorts," the soldier answer. "But the point was made."

He makes a gesture with his hand in the water, dismissive.

"They are not earnest for peace. Not us, not you."

His eyes lift from the ripples on the surfave of the water slowly. "It does not matter to Kings that soldiers die. Nor consorts, I suppose. Fly away, Swan. I have nothing more for you to sing into your king's ear."

Will does not argue that Menelaus would not even listen. He gathers himself and leaves the soldier to sit alone in the dark waters of the bath, so still he causes no ripples.

-

Menelaus does not command will to wait in the antechamber the next day, supposing Will's effect lost on the handful of Spartan guards. The emissary, Prince Paris, has seen him, and the time for gentle impressment has passed, in Agamemnon's opinion.

Will finds himself with an almost unprecidented amount of time to himself.  
His morning is unbearably quiet, though he has the luxury of spending it tucked in his fine bed, if he desires. Soon, the soft white linen seems to scratch his skin no matter how he lies, sleep eluding him. His mind echoes thoughts, letting them rattle to and fro with no real purpose.

The Trojan soldier's eyes haunt him. Brown, enticing depths. Sweet promises and genuine interest. Will rouses himself quickly, then. He has no time to devote to such folly, even with an excess of hours.

He avoids the gymnasium and it's welcoming baths - at this time of day it was bound to be filled with gossiping, highborn Spartans.

Instead, he opts for the gardens. He passes three patrols of guards in the palace, finding it somewhat strange. He remembers Menelaus' orders to Agamemnon, but this seems excessive. 

_'They are not earnest about peace,'_ his soldier had said.

The Trojan was right.

It was a mutual baring of teeth, these negotiations. He can feel the slow esccalation of tension like a fouled muscle. 

The city states are like two animals stretching their jaws wide to see who has the bigger bite. It is only a matter of time before one finds an excuse to lunge. Men will die, when they decide to fight.

Will won't ever see it. Menelaus, either. Nor the Trojan king. How little, the lives of men. 

The third time Will meets the soldier, he is in the garden under the sun. Sparta's palace boasts green and meandering gardens, lush with plants that reach out against their boundaries, infringing on the paths with soft leaves and sweet smelling buds.

He catches the soldier, lean and strong and long limbed, climbing a tree in the corner of the gardens. Of a sudden, he remembers the fresh apple.

Now, the man seeks to steal a pear from the King's own garden. A bold move. A foolish one, dangerous, and yet Will feels no anger at it.

"How did you get past the guards?" he asks, at the bottom of the tree. The soldier startles, but does not lose his grip. A glance down assures him of Will's harmlessness.

"Simple," the soldier answers. He shimmies a little further along the limb he has chosen - not the sturdiest, but Will can see ripe, sweet fruit at the end of the branch. 

"I never saw them. I came over the wall."

"Over the -"

Will's eyes trail to the barrier, tall, formidable. Smooth, carefully cut stone. 

"There is a weak point," the soldier tells him. "But I won't tell you where."

"It's the King's fruit you know," Will warns him, but the cavalier attitude endears the Trojan to him. A little.

"It's worthy of a king," the soldier agrees, his voice strained as he reaches. "But I don't see him out here picking it."

"It's why they built the wall," Will protests, watching the soldier select his fruit carefully.

The Trojan does not answer, twisting a pear free and tossing it down to Will. It is ripe and firm to the touch, green skin awash with a blush of red-brown freckles.

Will holds it, the skin smooth and cool beneath his fingers, and looks up. 

The soldier eases toward the center of the tree again with a pear half bitten into his mouth to hold it and retain the use of both his hands. He settles himself at the join of branch and trunk, adjusting until he rests with his back to the trunk and his legs extended along the branch. One is bent lazily at the knee, his heel spinning small, careless circles in the open air. The thick, spear tip shaped leaves and heavy clusters of fruit would serve well to keep him hidden from anyone not standing as close as Will.

"Do you not like pears, little swan?" the soldier asks.

Will considers the fruit in his hand, having never supposed it to be an offer.

"I'm not allowed either," he tells the soldier. HIs answer is a slow arch of the man's eyebrows. Disbelief, perhaps. 

Deliberately, the soldier bites off the flesh of the pear where his teeth had started the cut to hold onto it. Momentarily he looks blissful, enjoying the texture and the taste.

Will considers his own prize, given unasked. It looks tempting. He sighs, glancing around the garden. The soldier could claim ignorance, if he was caught at this game. Will didn't have the excuse.

"I'm watching for you," the soldier assures him. 

Will lifts the pear to his mouth and tastes timidly. He has had pears before - cooked, castoff, nearly gone by. At times, when Menelaus was pleased with him, he allowed Will to eat from his own plate - but only ever what was offered.

This is fresh and sweet, juicy and cloying against his tongue. It tastes cool, soothing. He cannot - quite - stop his smile at the wicked deliciousness. 

"It's better when it's not quite yours," the soldier purrs lowly, his voice carrying down to Will. Will looks up to find the man's eyes on him, attentive. The dappled shadows of the leaves paint his darker skin in tones of gray, render his eyes to coals and sparks. 

Will returns the gaze, and sinks his teeth into the pear again, showing them by way of warning. He does not want to discourage the flirting, in truth. The Trojan soldier is handsome in his way, rugged and more appealing by far than Menelaus. 

He does not know, either, what he risks. 

Stolen fruit might be forgiven in order to keep peace talks fluid and amenable. Anything further - all that this implied between them - might be cause enough for war. It would cost the soldier his head at least, if it was discovered. He is too fond of the Spartan, or perhaps simply too envious of his wild freedom. 

"They left you behind today," Will observes instead, curious at it. They eat quietly for a time, before the soldier answers.

"The prince bade me investigate the bait set forth by King Menelaus," the soldier answers, cryptically. "He feels we might learn something, if we at least pretend to be lured."

Will cannot make sense of the words. If the man was out to investigate Menelaus' ploy, his display of soldiers and military might, why was he here in the palace gardens? Had the Trojan deliberately shirked his duty to seek his own pleasure amongst the Spartan king's forbidden fruit?

Something of his bewilderment must show on his face. The soldier's look sharpens, intensifies to study. Will feels the dark eyes on him, and a sudden self-consciousness overtakes him He isn't certain why he feels it, nor why the soldier is so interested in his confusion. 

"Have you disregarded your orders?" Will asks, defensively. 

It wakes a look that answers Will's own confusion on the soldier's features. 

"Certainly not," the Trojan answers, lifting the pear to his mouth in consideration. 

Will regards him vexedly, crossing one arm over his chest and holding the other extended with the core of his eaten pear away from his body. As if the juice might stain his silks, like some tell tale of his crime.

"The training army beneath our windows is an implication," the soldier says, chewing. "A threat." 

Will is about to ask what lure the man could mean if he did not mean the army, but something in the soldier's intent expression stops him. He works the words back through in his mind.

Bait. A lure.

Something set out by Menelaus to tempt the Trojans.   
Will looks up suddenly to find the soldier grinning at him, a victor's smile.

He feels anything but pleased. He has been shown, laid down as a temptation. Deliberately left where he could be seen, and if the Trojans had played for him, he would be made an excuse for war. He doubts Menelaus would have cared if he had been willing - in any part of the scheme. 

He glares up at the soldier then, feeling a fool to have ever been flattered by his seeming courtship. He is angry with the lie, disgusted to be used even more plainly, even more crudely than he is used to.

Will throws down the pear core at the base of the tree, infuriated. He feels satisfaction in soldier's surprised gaze.

"You really didn't-" the Trojan begins.

Will shakes his head. He does not want to feel an even greater fool. He finds he cannot stand the sight of compassion in the soldier's eyes.

Will leaves the garden quickly, before anger can make him rash. The soldier only risks lifting his voice once from his hiding place to try and call him back.

Will does not call the guards, though he knows he could - knows he _should_ , but he will not play even partially into this insincere game of politics.

-

"How was your day, boy?" Menelaus solicits, reaching for information. It is decidedly unusual.

Will could almost still feel the remains of sticky juice on his fingers, the ache of shaking anger in his limbs. He pours water from the ewer into the basin so Menelaus can wash his fingers before eating.

"Uneventful, my lord," he answers, keeping his voice steady. If he had not been ready for the scrutiny that followed, aware of his role, then he might not have managed it. He lifts his eyes, just a little, enough to briefly meet Menelaus', evincing confusion at the sudden interest.

"I spent time in the gardens," Will tells him honestly. "And then I returned and cleaned my chambers." 

The second is also partially true. He had cleaned his room, setting his freshly washed bed linens to dry on the line on his small balcony. The breeze would sweeten them as they dried. That he had done all of it in a violent flurry of barely controlled anger he does not say. The exertion had helped.

Menelaus does not, at least, look wholly disappointed. He arranges his features to careful neutral and probes furthers.

"I had heard that there has been the worry of trouble among the Trojan soldiers," Menelaus continues, drying his hands.

Will pours his wine and stands attendant, as he is expected to. He waits for it to be a question, continuing his feigned ignorance while Menelaus dangles the hook and twitches the line to try and catch him.

"Have they bothered you, boy?" 

The question is direct, and requires a direct answer. Will hides his tension by bracing his fingers under and against the wine decanter.

"No, my king, I have not been bothered."

Will's tone is level and calm, and he can keep his eyes on the floor as expected. He does his best not to waver under the scrutiny. He seems to pass the test.

Menelaus says nothing further, but takes six cups of wine and stands only slowly after his supper. He does not demand Will's attendance in his bed, and though he knows it is a sign of immense displeasure, Will does not have the stomach to be disappointed by it. 

Tomorrow, if he is not demanded to be present, he will endure the boredom in his chambers. Today, he does not even risk the baths. He bathes simply, as best he can with a cloth and the remainder of the cool water from the ewer. 

There are no touches to wash from his skin today.

Will's chambers are small, simple, appended to the king's. It is both practical and a deterrent. He can serve Menelaus whenever he is required and he cannot leave, nor can anyone enter without passing through the king's chamber.

He has a balcony at least, that closes with a set of colored glass windows he can leave open to the night when it is warm enough. At times, he sits upon it, content to watch the world exist below. Sometimes, he longs for it, for any life that is not this one, and then he lets the notion lie as foolish. 

He swings open the tall doors onto the balcony now, and outside the night is bright with moonlight. The moon herself is nearly full, and the white painted columns of the courtyard catch it, reflect it.

As do his bed clothes, the long pale linens drifting in the cooling breeze. Will reaches up to pull down the first, eyes absently on the starry sky. He tugs it down quickly, intent on folding it.

There is a hand darker than the marble it clutches slung over the stone railing of his balcony, scarred knuckles white with effort. Will does not restrain his startled yelp, his backward leap, holding the sheets against his chest as if they might offer any protection against such a demon.

His heart seems to clatter in the cage of his ribs, a rattling terror that wakes and dies swiftly.

The monster does not come leaping over the rail. The hand stays steady, but he can see the wrist trembling with effort.

Will approaches the rail cautiously, sheet forgotten in his hands. He dares a glance over the edge, and his fear vanishes, replaced by exasperation. 

The Trojan soldier with whom he had so often conversed these last few days hangs clinging, crouched, halfway up the railing of his balcony. Beyond him, open air, a long way down. He wears a look of wary surprise on his features. Will has seen it on the jackals that roam beyond the city walls, when a light passes suddenly on them to define their dark shapes out of the night.

"I should call a guard," Will hisses.

The soldier shifts, changes his hold- his other hand curled around one of the decorations on the balustrade. He offers no opinion save to glance over his shoulder at the long drop.

"What are you doing?" Will demands, though the answer is at least partially evident. 

A thought strikes him. His balcony protrudes at a straight angle to the wall, with two stories of drop beneath. The soldier would have had to cling to the bottom, hanging by his grip until he reached the edge. Will could not say how he had managed it without falling.

Will allows it is another miracle that he has not already been seen, clinging to the walls of the castle like an overlarge and obnoxious spider.

"Climbing onto your balcony," the Spartan answers practically,before amending. "Attempting to climb onto your balcony."

His grip shifts again, and Will sees it start to slip just before it happens, having a better view of the smooth surface the soldier is about to close his fingers on. He could not quite say what instinct drives him to lunge halfway over the rail to close his hands under the Soldier's arms and pull him up. The soldier has one good hand hold still, and his feet planted carefully against the decorative crevices, but Will rescues him anyway.

He drags the soldier up over the balustrade and onto his small balcony, pulling him until the remaining hanging bed linens shield them from the courtyard and gardens below. 

"Why," Will grunts, as the man sorts his weight back onto his own limbs instead of overbalanced into Will's custody. "Are you climbing my balcony. Are you mad?"

A sudden awareness of the danger in this situation sinks like as tone in the well of Will's belly. Here is the foreign soldier - in is _room_ , and Menelaus sleeps in the next, there but for the grace of wine-deep slumber.

"Not mad," the soldier says, lingering perhaps a hair longer in proximity to Will than is required. "I came to make my apologies."

Will stares his disbelief into the soldier's chest as if he could burn a hole there. The soldier works one hand at the opposite wrist to ease the soreness hanging from it for so long had caused. It is not quite a nervous gesture. 

Not nearly so much as it _should_ be, anyway.

"How will you get back down?" Will demands, the only coherent thought he can manage.

The soldier does not answer, instead letting his hands drop to his sides as he comes to an informal sort of attention, as if it is the only way he knows how to speak formally.

"I am sorry," he says. "For this morning."

Will just looks at him, without enough possible ways to express his disbelief. 

"I thought you knew," the soldier continues into the silence, somewhere between uncertain and whatever he had rehearsed before scaling the palace walls.

"I assumed you were playing along - a willing piece," he finishes. His hands tuck behind his back and clasp together, and he tips his chin up as if awaiting judgment among the ranks, confident it will be fair.

Will closes his eyes and sighs, uncertain what's expected of him. 

"So you climbed up the palace walls to apologize to a slave - risking a war in the process?" 

The soldier smiles then, bright, handsome. It is a sweet expression on his sharp features.

"I didn't find you at the baths," he explains, as if it is actually logic.

Will stumbles upon the statement, trying not to feel an utter idiot. He thinks of the other two meetings - the first was unlikely anything but what it had seemed, at least on the Spartan's end.

The others...

"Was that the only reason I kept seeing you?" Will asks.

The Trojan manages a faintly embarrassed expression, affable, honest, at the question.

"Only in part," he says, temporizing.

"Go back over the balcony," Will orders flatly. He knows it is unreasonable but he does not owe this man reasonability. 

"And if I am seen?"

"If we are lucky they will dispatch you with an arrow before you can answer any more questions," Will tells him, hissing quietly. "Or ask any more. Every minute here endangers us both." 

The soldier makes a thoughtful noise. Will finds his anger hollows, a ringing bell that is empty in the middle so it sounds louder, resonating, but ultimately less than it seems. He does not want the Trojan dead. He does not want war.

"I had hoped you would accept my apology before dismissing me to my fate," the soldier ventures, earnest. 

Will pulls in a very long breath and considers it. The soldier stands till in the moonlight, seeming made for darkness. The pale light is kind to him, soft against his brown hair. It hangs just barely in his eyes now, in a disarray from his exertion. There is no trace of his earlier play now, just a genuine desire to mend what he has rent.

Will lets his breath out slowly, quietly. 

"I forgive you," he says, quietly. "But you have to go. Menelaus is just there-"

Will indicates the doorway into the king's chambers, and the soldier follows his pointing finger with his gaze.

"If he wakes..."

Will shakes his head, there is no need to explain what will happen - the soldier had warned him of as much. It is the very thing that each side is trying to bait the other into taking.

"Go on, soldier," Will tells him, when the other looks sceptical of the danger. It was true - if his initial surprised yelp had not woken Menelaus, he was like to sleep the night entire. 

"I have a name," the soldier says.

"And I am not a little swan," Will answers, smiling. It is too unusual. He has not had so candid and normal a conversation since he had been a child. It is almost as if he had a friend again - it had been longer still since he could say as much.

"No," the soldier agrees. "You're Will."

Will finds his brows arching in surprise, before he supposes it is not so difficult a thing to discover his name. Perhaps they had even asked, if the soldier had been set to the trail of Menelaus' bait.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Will says, amused. He can almost forget the rest of the situation except for the cool breeze stirring the sheets behind the soldier.

"You have only to ask and the advantage is yours."

Will asks.

"I'm Hannibal," the soldier offers, when Will does.

A sense of surreality settles over Will, a chill dread. His good humor closes up like a dying flower to hear the one name he would never have guessed.

" _General_ Hannibal?" he asks for clarification, as if there could be another amongst the Trojans with so feared and unusual a name. 

The man's expression answers Will's question without words, and for a moment he is speechless - the Trojan general responsible for so much grief in Sparta, for so much death on the battlefield.

General Hannibal had climbed three stories to his balcony like a love struck youth in a tragic play.

Will swallows, suddenly wary, and the triumph of being known slowly slides from Hannibal's face, replaced with concern.

"They say you eat the men you slay on the battlefield," is all Will can think to say, all the words he has in him. 

The last of Hannibal's smile fades from him, and he does return to the railing then, swinging one leg over after a brief glance around for anyone watching.

"Do not believe the excuses men make for their fears," Hannibal suggests, and then his tongue appears pink over his lower lip in a very human gesture of thought, of delay. "It is easier to hate something you don't believe is human."

Then he swings over, back out into the open air, and Will cannot stop himself from checking sometime later, after he has remade his bed. He has to be sure Hannibal did not fall.

-


	2. Marauding Through the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will does not see General Hannibal in the garden again, finds the baths safe enough when he visits them on the next evening in dire need. Menelaus had been frustrated by the day's talks, perhaps by the Trojan's failure to mis-step.

Will does not see General Hannibal in the garden again, finds the baths safe enough when he visits them on the next evening in dire need. Menelaus had been frustrated by the day's talks, perhaps by the Trojan's failure to mis-step.

He had taken it out on Will, leaving him sore and ill used. He slips into the cool waters and does not know if he should feel relieved not to see the General in the green corner of the bathing pool, lounging as he had against the ivy. 

He feels as if his place is slowly crumbling - Menelaus had prized him as a beautiful youth, as an alluring, coveted prize. With Will's failure to entice the Trojans, he can see the wheels have begun to turn in his King's thoughts. Perhaps the failure was not in the plan, but the pawn. Perhaps it was time for a new prize to dangle, someone younger, with greater beauty.

Someone who would not fail as a temptation. 

It was that war between frustration and jealousy that had found it's battleground on Will's body.

It leaves him uncertain how to proceed - whether he should play to the trap and flirt amongst the Trojans, risking war and the possibility of Menelaus' displeasure for being unfaithful, or if he should continue to discourage them. He could - if he hid away until the talks had concluded. He is certain to face his King's displeasure, then. He is not certain which would be greater.

He closes his eyes and prays to the Gods, the cool water soothing his aches some. They offer no guidance, no further solace. He dares not linger too long and rouse suspicion.

Will returns to the King's quarters clean, twisting the last of the water from his hair. 

Menelaus sits awake still, his eyes dark and considering. He does not look sated, wears none of the sleepy satisfaction he usually does when he has so availed himself - mouth and body, hands and skin - of Will's talents.

He sits instead on the edge of one of his fine chairs, his fingers folded against his mouth. Menelaus' contemplative gaze nails itself to Will, and seems to pin him.

Will swallows, resisting the urge to cross his arms defensively over his chest. 

"Did I not please you my lord?" he asks, daring a question when he feels he can no longer take the pressure of so intent a gaze.

"How long have you been mine, boy?" the king asks.

Will swallows. It has been some time since the term 'boy' was apt. It no longer is. He does not mention that.

"Eight years, my lord," Will answers, truthfully. Eight years and nearly a half of a ninth, and never before had it mattered enough to ask such a question. 

Menelaus looks speculative, his gaze as hard as bronze. Nearly as sharp. Will does not dare even to move with it resting upon him.

Then it softens some - scrutiny turning to appreciation again. Possessiveness. Will has redeemed his beauty with fear - perhaps his quickening breath and dark, wide eyes. Perhaps his teeth against his own lower lip, pressing, as it might be worried in pleasure.

Perhaps the blooming marks on his skin still flush from earlier exertions - a reminder that he belonged to Menelaus, wholly, with no possible reserve.

"Do not hide yourself away tomorrow, boy," Menelaus orders, finally. "Your skin grows too pale for want of sunlight." 

And that is all. It is one more chance to entice the Trojans, an offer for - condemnation? Redemption? 

Will is uncertain. It is perhaps both, confused together in Menelaus' mind, a chance to put Will's transient beauty to its best use, before it faded at last.

Menelaus lifts himself heavily from his chair, decision made. He leaves Will to stand at attention, bewildered and uncertain of what to do - which choice would be better.

He says nothing more before retiring to bed, and Will creeps into his own chambers, but he finds no rest that evening.

-

Will wakes late and the king is gone, leaving nothing but his missive of the night before in Will's mind. 

He does not know when sleep had at last claimed him. He had seen the dawn. Now it is long after, though he is still exhausted from a lack of sleeep.

Panic gets him to his feet, then. Hurries him along into his clothes - some of his finest, impractical, sheer. Enticing, though he rarely felt that way in them.

He nearly runs into Agamemnon, such is his rush to escape the King's quarters, to do what he has been bidden.

The general stands tall, unexpected and forboding in the hall, as if he had been awaiting Will for some time.

Will inclines himself into a low bow, ruing the day he had first wished to be noticeable again.

"Lord General," he greets. "You aren't at the talks...?"

"I see no need to be present if the Trojan general does not," Agamemnon answers, coldly. His gaze is unwavering, his thoughts impenetrable.

"It seems no one is quite sure what General Hannibal has been up to, these last few days." The statement is almost casual, but Agamemnon's piercing gaze suggests there is no game in this.

Will keeps silent, waiting. It will either be a question or a task. He does not trust himself to lie to Agamemnon.

"Courting, I suspect," Agamemnon continues, running a disapproving eye over Will in his fine silks. Will does not answer the accusation. It has not yet quite gone that far - not courting. He could still deny it, if he had to.

"Given his preferences," Agamemnon continues drily, "At least as we knew them, I'm surprised he has not bothered you."

Will reaches for the same poor defense, uncertain of the outcome.

"He has not bothered me, lord General."

Agamemnon does not fall for the trick in the words as his brother had, his eyes flashing in momentary amusement. 

"But you know him," he says, catching Will, ensnaring him. "Out of the Trojans, you can name him."

"Yes, lord General," Will cannot bring himself to lie about it, not with Agamemnon's piercing, intelligent eyes fixed upon him.

"He has spoken to you." It is a statement, only scarcely shy of an accusation. 

Will nods, dropping his eyes to the ground. He is not sure what he expects. Chastisement, punishment, admonitions. 

"Good," is what Agamemnon says.

It is the very last thing Will had expected. His gaze jerks back up, and he knows his confusion is unbecoming - but he has never before had so much intrigue and so many expectations laid at his feet.

"My brother has difficulty in letting things go when it is time," Agamemnon tells him, severe and terrifying in his emotionlessness. "Even when he has cultivated a piece for play, surrendering it to the field is difficult for him."

"Lord General." Will takes a deep breath - he does not want clarification, but he does not dare to misunderstand. "What do you ask of me?"

"What the king does not wish to, outright," Agamemnon says. It is toneless, dispassionate.

"Lure General Hannibal, tame the Trojan to your hand."

A pause. Will swallows.

"Seduce him boy, and we can call for his head."

-

Will retreats, dizzied, to the gardens. He does not know any place he can be alone that he dares. When he finds that the paths are patrolled, heavy footfalls falling into every moment of his awareness, he abandons even this sanctuary to the clanking soldiers and looming threat of war. For a time, he wanders aimlessly through the halls of the palace.

His orders seem impossible, too much resting on his shoulders. He is not even certain where to find the Trojan general. He is not certain that he wants to, that he would know what to do if he did. 

He finds himself wandering aimless, into the far reaches of the palace. It is a hopeless gesture, a useless one. Will has expended the worst of his nervous energy, at least. He stops himself. The palace is vast, but not confusing. HIs feet have carried him over the cool marble floor past the small but impressive library.

Too, he has bypassed the council chamber in which the King and the Trojan Prince sit, playing at words with no intent to keep them.

Will sits heavily on a brightly painted stone bench. Lost. The halls here are so quiet he cannot think. 

The Gods do him some small favor, and Will's unfocused gaze finds a familiar soldier's figure exiting the library.

He does not carry himself like a general, not even when no one is watching. At least, there is nothing of Agamemnon's haughty confidence in him. He moves instead as if he is engaged with the world. As if the world engages him.

He does not miss Will, and his smile broadens from something small and public to a genuine and pleased expression. He alters course. With each soft footfall, Will's heart sinks lower. He feels the closing distance as he might a slamming door. 

Will closes his eyes for a long moment, hoping Hannibal - eater of men as he may be - steps back out of the trap.

When he opens them again, the general stands just over him, looking down.

His dark eyes are deeply pleased, bewildered by Will's beauty. He is happy to be forgiven - to be sought out in spite of the danger.

Will wants, suddenly, to tell him everything. He wants with the unreasonable desire of a child for this to be taken from his hands. For everything to be made right. 

He cannot bear to lose such joy in his existence, in his presence - so he holds the knowledge that he intends to destroy it to his chest.

"Will you still play interested?" he asks instead, careful as a child setting his feet around cracks in stone.

"I need hardly _play_ ," Hannibal breathes, tone low, sweet with genuine desire. 

"Why did you seek me," Will says then, without intending to ask. "When you knew me to be bait, General. Why you, and not a lesser soldier?"

Hannibal does not answer immediately, as though he is uncertain of the question's intent.

"Because I did not have to feign interest, Will," he says at last.

Will recognizes the nervous habit of falling to attention for him. Hannibal joins his hands behind his own back loosely, standing attentive but not withdrawn.

"I'm a man of known tastes," he admits, when Will is quiet. "Or at least Menelaus thinks so."

Hannibal smiles. 

"And you are irresistably beautiful," he finishes, quiet. "I am less of a monster than they hoped. And you, a more virtuous creature than they feared."

Will cannot contain his bitter noise at that, and Hannibal's attention seems to sharpen, then. He takes in Will's lonely figure, here on the bench, tucked away from the world.

"Too virtuous to be of use," Will snarls, unable to contain the hopeless anger within him. He feels trapped in this, hopeless, helpless,a pawn on a field of kings and bishops. 

Hannibal settles next to him, then. A Trojan general lowering himself to sit with a common slave.

"Did I cause you harm?" he asks. 

Will shakes his head, draws in a long breath. This isn't going the way he intended, and he is hardly making himself desirable. Will gathers himself, and beside him, Hannibal waits with acute attention and infinite patience.

Will remembers Hannibal standing silhouetted on his balcony, unknown and handsome. The white sheet drifting behind him in the breeze and the slow charge building between them. He thinks, as he turns suddenly and leans up, that it would have been better to have kissed him then. His choice. His want. Willing hearts given in danger, without reserve.

Instead he offers this - kissing Hannibal sweetly, softly, enticing. It is a lie on the highest order, born out of a fear greater than the one that had held Will back when first they might have shared something meaningful. 

Hannibal does not pull away. His fingers come up gently to Will's cheeks, to touch his face, to curl beneath his chin and tip it up - asking, but not demanding more. 

Will gives it to him, leaning into the kiss, his mouth hot against Hannibal's, his hands reaching unbidden to tangle in the general's shirt. The kiss seems to reach down into him as it deepens.

Brazen as it is, dangerous as it is here in the open hallway, he does not want it to stop. He does not want his nerve to fail, does not dare to cease lest he confess everything into the empty space that would form between them. 

And this - 

Will has endured many kisses, suffered more still in the truest sense of the word. 

In this, he revels. It is a sweet ache, a genuine desire. He has always loved where he was bidden, always given as asked. From Hannibal, he _takes_ , and when the man breaks the kiss to breathe, he does not move very far away. Will takes his mouth again and finds it given, willing, easy. 

He aches for it, after that moment, and forgets to spill the danger of the moment into words.

Hannibal _knew_ anyway, he had to know. Was it not he who had first revealed this game to Will?

Hannibal's touch shifts to Will's chest, pressing him lightly back at last, to catch his breath in earnest. Likely, to argue sense. 

He says nothing when he draws back, however, simply looking at Will. He passes his tongue once over his lower lip. Will can't guess what he's waiting for, and after a moment he realizes he had truly surprised the Trojan.

Will laughs, helpless in the tension, easing his grip free of Hannibal's tunic at last.

"Not here," Will agrees, though it was unspoken and he had been the one to seize on opportunity, heedless of risk.

"Where?" Hannibal asks, brows drawing in, uncertain.

Will does not know what Hannibal must feel coiling at his neck - the grip of his own morals or the waiting trap.

_He knows_ ,Will reassures himself, _he has to know_.

"The baths," Will tells him. "Late. When everyone is gone."

The air feels thin as he speaks and it seems to crush his lungs for the words to leave them. He swallows dry.

"It's expected for me to go there," he says, looking up only briefly into Hannibal's eyes. "You must not be seen."

Hannibal's sly smile is confident, victorious. He knows he can do it. For one aching moment, Will envies his wild freedom before he remember he is contributing to its destruction.

Hannibal lifts himself off the bench, standing to offer Will a smile, a wordless promise to be there.

There are two more days of talks scheduled, two more days to posture and threaten. He watches Hannibal's straight, soldierly bearing as he retreats, wondering if he will have the nerve to tell Hannibal everything. If he is brave enough to give the Trojan the truth in exchange for what he will take from him. 

The knowledge sits like hard iron in his stomach, cold and immovable. 

-

Will suffers the rest of the day in misery. He had thought that once he'd firmed his resolve and taken the first step, the rest would fall into alignment. That perhaps, it would become easier. 

Hannibal was the enemy general, a tactician of some regard - a monster who dined on the flesh of his fallen enemies like a carrion bird, if the stories were to be believed. It should be easy. Yet, Will found it impossible to reconcile the image with that of the prolific climber he'd come to know, with that of the fruit thief.

He had been a gentle kisser, attentive.

It had gotten no easier though Will did not love Troy any great amount. If only they had come with reasonable terms. If only they had not come under pretenses. 

He is left alone to his supper, as if Menelaus cannot bear to see him. Or perhaps, the king expects him to have pride in his part, to seek Menelaus out as a dog might for a scrap of food or a distracted pat. 

Will has no apatite anyway, and he quits the table early, gathering a towel and his clothes for the bath.

It is in the long marble corridor leading to the gymnaseum that Will decides he will not turn Hannibal in tonight. If they are to take punishment for this - if one of them or both will lose their life, then it will not be only for a half-deed. He will not call the guards down to catch them. There is one more night for that.

Tonight they will both take what they want, and Will does want it, selfishly. He wants what sweet comfort he might get, knowing he was not owed it anywhere else. 

The sound of running water and quiet eases Will's thoughts. The decision to wait - to give Hannibal a chance, perhaps, to either back out of the trap or plunge himself into it - finds comfort against Will's heart.

Anticipation blooms slowly in Will's heart - he knows what he must do, how much he must give, and for once it will not be a burden. He is glad the general is handsome, that he has been kind. 

It will make it easier - enjoyable, Will ventures, in a place within himself that has never seen the light.

The baths are empty, cool moving water rippling gently in the bit pool. It pours eternally from lion's mouths, draining away in a slower trickle downstream. The palace had built over a flowing, underground waterway, and used the current to its advantage to keep the water fresh.

He eases gratefully into the water, leaving his clothes behind at the edge of the bath. He imagines stripping his fear and hesitations off with them, leaving them similarly discarded. 

It has always worked before. This time, it leaves an electric nervousness beneath his skin. It's like the cold touch of iron in his very veins, coursing with his blood. Will sinks into the bath, supposing his anxiety to arrive early would leave him waiting. 

He does not wait as long as he might expect, enough to finish washing his hair only, before hands settle gently around his middle, fingers spread and warm against his belly.

It should make Will jump, should startle him and wake all the nerves and fear he'd felt prior, but it slips under his guard just so, very carefully. He feels _relieved_ , comforted by a touch that is gentle and appreciative. 

Will leans into him, and finds his weight supported. Hannibal's arms are strong around him, his body firm and bare against Will's back.

"No one will come?" Hannibal lowers his head to ask it, his cheek against Will's hair, breath and voice hot behind his ear.

"No," Will answers, "Not unless I call."

Hannibal presses his warm, open mouth to the point of Will's pulse behind his ear, over the tendon of his neck.

"Will you call?" The question is playful, as if he already knows the answer. Perhaps he does - Hannibal had admitted himself to be of known tastes. Perhaps this was not his first such encounter.

Will looses a nervous chuckle, shaking his head. It is good, the laughter. Like a slow breaking of the tension inside him, thick ice thawing on a river. He will not call. He had already made up his mind. 

He turns in Hannibal's arms then, and for once, briefly, he enjoys the feeling. Hannibal llifts his hands as Will moves, his palms sliding parallel to the curving line of Will's spine. 

"How did you get in?" Will asks, amused. Hannibal had not been in the room, at least not anywhere to be seen, when Will had entered it. "Did you climb?"

He casts his eyes up toward the vaulted stone ceiling, to discern any place Hannibal might have clung to. 

Hannibal shakes his head, considering Will, now that he is free to do so. He is not shy in proximity, nor blunt or fierce in his attention. He does not _seize_ Will, as others have.

Will allows that is, of a sorts, courtship. As Agamemnon had ventured. Hardly love - but an appreciation, and far easier to bear than those he has known before.

Hannibal answers the question only after they have shared another kiss - a slow thing. Tender. Thrilling. If his head were not already spinning, his heart might nearly stop with the spare sweetness that was lent to the kiss. As Hannibal had said - better, when something was not quite yours. 

"There is a passage," Hannibal reveals. "Perhaps where the kings of old shared their harems with guests, in more generous times."

Will follows his gaze to the wall overgrown with Ivy, the tendrils hanging long into the bath itself, the water stirring their leaves where they dip.

"I thought you knew," Hannibal tells him. "No one saw my passage."

Will lifts his hands, running them over the planes of Hannibal's chest, curling his fingers through the dark hair there. An idea forms in his mind.

There are some things that time and privacy allow.

"Can we go back that way?" he asks. "To your room?"

"I hoped you might ask," Hannibal answers, wryly.

He draws Will up then, and Will follows the coaxing caresses of the hands on his shoulder blades, going up onto his toes to ease their mouths together. This kiss is longer, softer than the ones shared earlier. It does not hesitate, and Will wonders for a moment at the ease of it.

He steels his resolve then, thinking better of second guessing himself.

"Show me the way?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles, running wet fingers through WIll's curls, letting him go as if he did not want to.

The water rises as deep as his chest in the far end of the pool, and Will swims after, watching the muscles work in Hannibal's strong back as he gathers a handful of the trailing ivy to lift it aside. Behind is an open archway, carved into the stone. He has never seen it, though he suspects some others must know.

He gathers his clothes from the side of the bathing pool, and steps into the green darkness behind the wall of leaves and vines, Hannibal letting them fall back into place behind them. 

It is not a vast hall, but instead a service passage as Hannibal had guessed. It must lead to the guest quarters, but where else?

Hannibal touches a hand to the small of Will's back, pushing, guiding him forward. 

"It is easier coming the other way," Hannibal admits in an undertone. "Light creeps through the Ivy to guide you."

Will is not sure if that is meant to comfort him on the prospect of a return trip. 

The stone beneath his feet is wet, vaguely slippery. The passage must not often be used, save perhaps the mouth of it, with its sheltering curtain of leaves.

"On the way in, however," Hannibal continues, voice low and steady at Will's ear. "I have to count my steps."

Will trusts Hannibal to guide him, but walking blind into this unknown place winds tension in his body. He slides his feet, careful for loose stones or obstacles, finding neither.

Anticipation thrills along his spine, mutinously unwilling to make room for guilt or dread.

Will walks into darkness with Hannibal's hand splayed at the small of his back, willingly.

It is perhaps the first decision he can say he even had a hand in making for himself. It should make him afraid, this unknown.

Instead, he revels in it, in the low excitement at the promise of something to have for his own.

-

Hannibal knows his door by touch, and the room is dark when they enter it. It is not so absolutely black as the hall, moonlight filtering in through the wide window overlooking the parade grounds below. 

"May I?" Hannibal asks - he is very close, not quite touching Will. That he asks is charming, novel. 

Will nods. 

Hannibal leans into him from behind, and Will eases into it. They are still wet from the baths, and the cool air raises goose flesh on his kin.

His hands settle first on Will's shoulders, his mouth open at the center of Will's back between the shoulder blades. He holds Will steady when he begins to turn into the touches.

"Be still," Hannibal says, and, "Let me." 

Will does not quite know what to do with himself at that command, until Hannibal's hands slide lower. His open palms work a duality of sensation over Will's belly, up until he can pass the rough pads of his fingers against Will's nipples, waking them to hardness.

Biting his lip, Will soaks in the reverence of it, his own hands catching at Hannibal's wrists without restraining his hands. He can feel the controlled power, the shifting tendons that were more used to wielding a sword than this.

At the least, intimacy has not become a wrote to him.It is not a play acted a thousand times in the stage of the bedroom. Instead Hannibal approaches it as a man learning his lines - the long ones of Will's thighs, the shorter sonnet of his bent neck.

He can feel Hannibal hardening against him, without even Will's touch to warm him to readiness. He wants, then, to touch Hannibal as badly as the Trojan seems to want to touch him.

"Please," he exhales, Hannibal's breath answering against his wet skin as if he had been holding it this whole time.

Instead of giving Will leave to touch - or finally demanding anything other than his presence, Hannibal moves away from him, disentangling from Will's grip.

When he kneels, sitting back on his heels in front of Will, it takes his mind a moment to catch up to what Hannibal intends. Even as Hannibal leans in, pressing his open mouth to Will's belly in a gesture that's as much warning as intent, Will can't wholly comprehend it until Hannibal moves lower. He takes Will's cock into his mouth in a single motion, his tongue lifted along the underside, to map the exact shape of him.

Will pulls in a breath at the sensation, finding his hands making encouraging motions through the General's hair without him ever having a thought of lifting them. 

Hannibal's hair is straight, not quite silky to the touch, wet still from the baths. There is more than enough of it for Will to curl his fingers into. 

His tongue is rough velvet, his mouth welcoming Will deep and what he does not hold there, his fingers curl around. Sucking gently first at the the head, then shifting his mouth with no hint of uncertainty, Hannibal moves it instead along the underside of Will's cock. It is a slow, tormenting motion. Will isn't certain how long he can divide his focus enough to keep standing, and equally he cannot bear to ask for it to stop.

He wants that soft, reverent mouth to bring him to completion - greedily, as many times as he can get it. 

He is still surprised when it happens, when the tautness in him snaps and gives way, pouring out of him in a moment that seems to stretch time itself.

It leaves him panting - near shaking in the effort to remain upright. Hannibal's hands brace him against his thighs, then settle around his middle, holding him up. 

Will leans into it, curling his hands at Hannibal's biceps and holding tight. He wants to surrender the pleasure and ease swimming through his veins

"Speechless?" Hannibal asks, in just the right tone of self satisfaction.

Will chuckles and it rouses him from the sleepy lassitude spreading to his limbs.

"Usually I find myself on the other end," he admits, into the warm skin of Hannibal's neck.

"There's time yet," Hannibal suggests, amused.

When Hannibal steps back at last moving deeper into his room, Will follows. He lifts his eyes to take in the space, one that he has seen before. Occupation has not much changed it - the room is sterile, neat, but at least well equipped with furniture.

The bed looks deep and soft, unexpectedly welcoming. Will settles into it, arranging himself to allure as he watches Hannibal pour two cups of wine slowly from a decanter.

He drinks and offers in the same motion, as if to prove it is safe.

The wine is warm and sweet on Will's tongue, richer than the watered draughts he's used to. It settles heat in his chest, blooming up from his belly.

Will drinks deeply because it is good, rare. He tells himself it is only that and not for courage. 

When he sets the glass aside, he has it, lifting his body over Hannibal's on the bed to push him back and down into the pillows. Then he reaches at last and curls his fingers around Hannibal's girthy, half-roused cock, stroking until he can feel the response.

He does not hide the cleverness of his fingers, does not spare Hannibal any pity when he returns the favor of his mouth, his toying tongue. Hannibal lets him, quiet save for sweet indrawn breaths, near soundless groans.

What passes between them here is soft - exploratory. Will learns that just enough pressure with his thumbs, over the points of Hannibal's hips, makes him growl pleasurably and twist. Hannibal discovers the ticklish hollows behind Will's knees, making soft apology as he takes his advantage there.

Hannibal finishes between Will's thighs, the top of his shaft running delicious friction against the underside of Will's own as he holds them together, his fingers curling about the head of Hannibal's cock when he thrusts. It leaves him sticky and sated and Hannibal turns him, pulls them together as if Will could stay. 

It is the quiet here that becomes crushing, with his ear against Hannibal's slowing heartbeat. Each feels like a new stone laid upon Will's chest until he almost can't breathe with it. 

"They want me to set you up," he confesses, then. It emerges before Will can stop himself.

"I know, little swan," Hannibal says, quiet. There is no trace of fear.

"No, Hannibal," he lifts himself from the comfort of the man's chest, from the warmth there.

"You," he clarifies, helpless. "They want your head."

The soothing motions along Will's back stop.

"Have you told them to come?"

Will shakes his head.

"But they sent me - told me to come," he says. "They will try your rooms. If not tonight-"

"Is this why you came?" The tone is cold, quiet.

Will makes a helpless noise. "Yes. No. I'm sorry-"

He is what he is, and has always been in part at the mercy of it. If it had never before been so cruel, it was only by luck.

"I didn't call them," Will says, desperate. "And I won't help them."

Hannibal shakes his head, and the anger fades from him slowly. 

"You have done as you were bidden but took no joy in it-" he begins to say. Will could not say why he does it, but he bites Hannibal for the mistake, the only correction that seems sudden and sharp enough. 

"I have taken plenty of pleasure in it," he hisses. "Enough to save you from the consequences, General. If you can get me back into the garden by your secret way, none but us need know of this."

Hannibal rubs the impression of Will's teeth out of his skin with a slow, thoughtful motion.

"And then?" he asks. "What of your consequences?"

Will does not know. He has not been punished in years, preffering to obey rather than endure the lash - even the gentled one designed not to mar his skin.

"No matter what I face it is unlikely to be severe. They cannot punish me publically, not without admitting what they planned."

Will cannot quite feel confident of it. At the back of his mind he is aware how little of his life is public - how little it would matter if his death became private. He hopes it would not come to that.

"It doesn't matter," Will says at last. "You and your prince are not safe here, and they are contriving to find offense-"

"Such as the one we have just committed," Hannibal observes, amused.

"You should go now, while they do not know you mean to." 

Hannibal gathers Will's hands between his own rough palms, his scarred fingers, but the touch itself is gentle. Grateful.

"Little swan you should not pay for this with such coin," he says.

Will shakes his head. "I have no other coin with which to pay, it has ever been so."

But as numbing as the realization is, as shocking as his own betrayal, he cannot regret it. The man before him is only that - as much a pawn waiting for peace as he.

For a time, they are quiet. Will rouses himself at last, and Hannibal remains reclined in the pillows. Only the light reflecting in his eyes - cold blue moonlight - suggests his eyes are even still open.

But he follows where Will moves, pulling on his soft robe at last, adjusting it to sit less heavily on his shoulders.

"In the morning, we will be gone," Hannibal says.

Will swallows, nods. 

"In Troy, anyone can walk the gardens," he says then. "The fruit is not so sweet but it is free."

Will does not answer immediately, uncertain how he is meant to. 

"Live, then, General - and stick to what fruit is yours by right in the future."

Hannibal sits up, then.

"Come with me." 

It was not what Will expected, but so little about the general was. 

"Be mine by rights," Hannibal uses Will's own words against him. "And be free of this place, Will."

"There will be war."

"That's inevitable. They already intend it."

Will finds his throat dry, but he wants it, _how_ he wants it, to be free of this place. The song is to sweet to be wholly true, but he hears it, feels it in his blood.

"They will use me as the excuse," he protests.

"As they already intend to do," Hannibal says. "Even if you do not confess, if we ride out with haste all they need do is claim you've shamed yourself."

Will can barely comprehend it, but he hears the truth he doesn't want to in those words. He remembers the haunting emptiness in Agamemnon's eyes. 

"How?" he asks, suddenly miserable. He sinks down into a chair, out of breath.

"They will claim it - as a slave, they hardly need wait on your word..."

"How will you get me out of the city?" Will corrects. His voice is very small, very desperate.

Hannibal smiles slowly at that.

-

The armor weighs heavy on Will's shoulder, the clothes beneath an unusual combination of cotton roughspun and padding. The heavy fabric makes him sweat, feeling impractical in the Spartan summer. It is too big for him, even tied as tightly as was safe, and Will felt he rattled while walking, as a handful of stones might in a metal pail.

He had stood by waiting when General Hannibal had conversed in hushed tones with his prince, listing the long plot before him. Paris passes his eyes only once over Will in his borrowed uniform - Hannibal's, the general dressed plainly. He does not like bringing him, does not like the extra delay in leaving the city, but he does not gainsay his General.

Now they wait by the city wall with an extra horse, and Will is alone in this strange armor, left to worrying.

He has not been outside the city since his boyhood. Sitting in General's armor next to the prince of his enemies does not ease the transition. 

He does not sit the General's horse well, he knows, but the guards had not stopped them at the gate, had not dared challenge the Trojans to look more closely at their party. Even now, Menelaus must be waking to the news, even now must be throwing open the door into Will's room and discovering it to be empty.

Every moment they wait is agony, and when Hannibal's horse makes wide, restless motions with her mouth on the bit, Will identifies with her impatience.

Finally a dark shape crowns the wall, and drops over, finding handholds to let itself down.

Hannibal drops the last span, landing on deeply bent knees with a grin. 

Relief floods Will to see him again - whole, alive, free of the city. He does not know that he truly expected to, once they'd left Hannibal behind.

"A shame the entire army can't climb like its General," Prince Paris observes wryly, at Will's side.

He finds it is not shocking to hear the Trojans speak of taking the city. Though someplace, Will knows that there would be horror within the walls if it came to the invasion of Sparta. It had seemed far away, even when it was his city. 

Now, he reminds himself, it no longer is. Sparta is something of his past - and Menelaus. The betrayal will be seen for what it is, and the thought leaves Will feeling exposed and fearful, with nowhere to run but where the Trojans will take him.

"I have offered to teach them," Hannibal says, hoisting himself onto the unmanned horse. "But most men take exception to disarming themselves to climb."

The Prince does not argue, as Hannibal gathers his reins, accepting his arms from Will. They are a weight Will is glad to be rid of, both short sword and a multitude of daggers. They felt heavy, and he lighter when Hannibal takes them.

"Are you ready for the chase, Swan?" the General asks, kindly. 

There is no option now but to nod, to follow where the others lead. Will does, shifting his seat until the congregation turns and then they are running, alarm horns finally sounding a chase behind them as they fly.


	3. The Truce Erupts in War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will thinks it is meant as reassurance but it leaves him cold. Quiet.
> 
> "It is a cage," he observes. 
> 
> Hannibal laughs, forced to give his head an acquiescent tip.
> 
> "Every city is a cage, swan," he reassures. "Bars keep things out as well as in."

3\. 

Will remembers little of the flight when it is over. He retains an aching seat, sore thighs, a bone deep exhaustion from too little sleep charged with nerves. They had flown ahead of what party Menelaus had sent after, but had proven too fleet for their dedications.

Perhaps they did not care to retrieve Will, so long as they could declare war. 

Troy looks ready for it also, he must allow. The city's walls are far taller than those of Sparta, more formidable.

When they ride beneath them, along the length of the city, Will cannot see the sun in the sky and it is briefly overwhelming

"We fear no conquerer," Hannibal boasts. "If any made it past me in the field, none can surmount the walls."

Will thinks it is meant as reassurance but it leaves him cold. Quiet.

"It is a cage," he observes. 

Hannibal laughs, forced to give his head an acquiescent tip.

"Every city is a cage, swan," he reassures. "Bars keep things out as well as in."

Will is not so worried about what is without as he is about what will be locked inside with him.

The entryway is massive, an arching wonder of stone carved with images of men lifting offerings to the gods. Will looks up as they pass beneath and wonders how it had ever been built, how the massive metal doors had ever been lifted into place. 

"It takes a team of horses to close them," Hannibal confides.

Will hopes that to mean that they are usually left open.

But within, the city is spacious and green, the houses set carefully apart from one another. They are tall, mud brick buildings painted a riot of muted colors. Reds - greens - blues, each calling out to him to look.

It does not smell so much like a city as Will is used to, either. Plants hang from hooks, or grow from boxes at windows. Further in, near the palace where it rises on its hill above the city, Will can see the promise of green and trees - the garden, as Hannibal had promised.

It eases Will a little that he cannot see the far wall, though he knows it must extend fully around the city proper.

They pass through the wide streets and the people greet Prince Paris and General Hannibal with deference. Will rides to the rear with the soldiers, having returned Hannibal's armor. He goes unknown and unremarked on his borrowed mount, only one among many. It is a relief.

At least he is not ridden in as a captive. This is not a triumph, but a failed peace procession, and still the people bow and cheer for the return.   
When they reach the palace, Will finds himself at a loss. Events sweep Paris and Hannibal up quickly, and they have barely dismounted before a messenger finds them.

Will watches Hannibal go anxiously, uncertain what to do.

He finds himself alone in the courtyard, the soldiers dispersing gratefully to their homes, and a boy claiming his horse to be stabled.

He is tired, weary from the journey and all the changes in his life. He thinks longingly of the soft bed in his rooms. 

The city isn't Will's, nor the palace. The halls are cold white marble streaked black and gray, the floors uncovered wood. Will feels small and alone, but he cannot resolve himself to wait until someone notices he does not belong.

Freedom calls to him, a bird that seems to sing so sweetly it must only call out for a short time.

He finds he does not expect to keep it long, though perhaps Hannibal would be as good as his word in protecting Will, would assert the rights he had implied he might.

Will finds himself in the garden, a lush and green space - but not quiet. The space is open to all.

Veiled women walk amongst the green aisles between trees, and children run in wide orbits, climbing, shouting, hiding. Will watches a boy deftly scale one of the fruit trees, tossing down a brilliant orange to his sister below, before tucking one into his teeth for the climb down.

Despite all that he has come through, Will finds a certain ease here in the gardens. Hetaira walk here unremarked, though Will knows enough of his trade to recognize them. No one challenges him when he reaches up to pull an orange off the same tree the boy had climbed. 

It is bright and sweet when he eats it, but does not taste forbidden. Will scrapes the flesh from the peel with his teeth anyway.

It leaves his chin sticky with juice and a soft, lingering taste on his tongue.

Will doesn't intend to stay long when he settles down beneath the blossoming eaves of a plum tree. Perhaps long enough to watch the sunset, with the thick, purple scent of the flowers hanging around him.

He does not resist sleep when it comes, however, his body heavy with sudden lassitude.

Will surrenders and the scent of plum flowers and flowing water invades his dreams. In his mind he dreams the city - not accurately, but he knows with the certainty of dreams where he is. The streets are empty of everyone but galloping horses, the gardens blooming empty. 

Horses move through the trees in a run, and look neither left nor right.

There is something deeply sorrowful in their silent rushing, though they touch nothing but the ground and leave all undisturbed in their wake.

When he wakes, darkness has come and his eyes sting. He does not cry.

"There you are."

Hannibal's voice is warm and welcome. It is the only familiar thing to reach out to him here, while recent waking leaves him lost and disoriented. Even the night insects sound different, scattered and lonesome.

"What do you think of our free gardens, little swan?" Hannibal asks, crouching near Will beneath the eaves of the tree.

"I see how you became so adept at climbing," Will answers.

Hannibal laughs, looking up through the branches.

"I was good before hunger became my motivator," he admits.

"What did the king say of -" Will struggles, not wanting to imply a failure to negotiate peace or that any of this was planned. 

"The coming war?" Hannibal asks, eyes dark with some emotion Will isn't sure he can read yet.

Will nods. It was a certainty now, given the excuse of a theft, when offered at the pendulum's swing of a mere tryst. It is a persistent guilt, as if the whole weight of it settled on his narrow shoulders. A difficult concept, as yet not fully real.

"He is glad we will have struck the bloodying blow, if war was inevitable," Hannibal admits. "But he is not wholly certain of the method."

"What would he have preferred?" Will asks, as Hannibal settles down in the grass next to him.

"Perhaps for me to make him a gift of Agamemnon's head," Hannibal suggest. "Or to have seduced Menelaus instead." 

Will shakes his head. "You did very little seducing."

Hannibal eyes him on clear displeasure at the dismissal of his skill. Then he seems to resolve himself, reaching for Will as if to immediately remedy the failing. 

"What now?" Will asks. "What will I do?"

"Come with me," Hannibal says.

He gets to his feet, offering Will a hand up, and they both disentangle themselves from the plum blossoms.

In the starlight, Hannibal's eyes are very dark, warm voids somehow welcoming Will in. He smiles, but there is a sad note to it.

"The king will see you tomorrow," he says. 

Will is surprised, and it must show on his face. Hannibal does not let go of his hand.

"Why?"

"He will ask you to verify our story, to give your word, against Menelaus and reveal his intentions."

Will supposes he should have expected it. He cannot hope to easily escape this web, though he wishes nothing more than to be done with such intrigues. Nerves flutter low in his belly - he is nothing here, after all, but the concubine of an enemy king.

"He will judge what's to be done with you then," Hannibal finishes.

Will's fear drops like a stone within him.

"What's to be done - " he starts to ask, to demand perhaps.

Hannibal turns Will to face him, gripping his shoulders to steady him, reassuringly.

"He will listen to what I advise," he says. "And I will ask for your custody if you must be someone's charge."

Will does not quite know how to feel about it. He had been free only for the span of nights it had taken to ride from Sparta to Troy.

Had all of this been a careful manipulation to get him here? To make his capture easier? Will looks up into Hannibal's eyes and tries to measure his intent, his sincerity.

He cannot.

-

Will is surprised to find Hannibal does not live within the palace, though he supposes it makes sense when he considers that Agamemnon is not only a general but the king's brother and first in the line of succession. 

Instead, he has a separate estate. It is not overly large or extravagant but large enough to leave Will feeling small in the front hall, while Hannibal is greeted by his servants. The space is elegantly appointed, showing more color than the palace, though nothing like the vibrant colors in favor at Sparta.

The space is heavy with browns and blues. Will's eyes travel, taking in the repeating patterns painted on the walls, the exotic, dark wooded furniture. 

Hannibal seems pleased by his awe, proud of what he has built. 

It is comfortable, Will allows, if severe. He wonders if he will truly fit into the space - then he wonders if _Hannibal_ truly fits, resplendent and rough as he looks in his bright armor. 

Servants take his helmet, his breastplate and weapons, leaving him in the leather under-padding. Hannibal leads Will deeper, undoing straps to strip it off shamelessly. 

"Here are the kitchens," he explains, gesturing with his chin. "The hall, the library, and a study - I use the last only when expected to entertain royalty with military explanations."

A brief glance as they pass reveals a room rich with maps - laid out on a heavy block table, hung on the walls. Will is staggered to see such expansive objects laid out so carelessly and in such abundance. 

"And here are my rooms," Hannibal concludes revealing a series of comfortably appointed rooms - one for sitting and dressing, a handsome sleep chamber with a lavish bed that brings to Will's mind all previous talk of Hannibal's known history of type.

It is a rich space, draped with dark fabrics and accented with silver - a shining ewer for water, a matching basin, a tall carafe for wine. They are spots that shine in the dark space, catching and holding Will's attention.

Hannibal discards the leather armor padding onto a stand apparently intended for it, and then he hesitates, bare to his unders.

He catches Will's attention and then inclines his head toward the last doorway in the room - moonlight comes through it, implying a window or balcony.

The tantalizing sound of trickling water reaches Will's ears, a sudden tentative hope fills him. He takes the invitation to look and peers through the indicated doorway.

It is a private bath, fed into a deep round pool by a stream that the house is positioned over, clear and promising with a slow current stirring the surface. Moonlight eases in from small windows high in the walls, and from a skylight cut into the vaulted ceiling.

"Oh," Will says, breathless with desire. "Please."

"Go ahead," Hannibal permits, and waits for Will to ease out of dirty clothing, and into the cool, clean water. It eases against his skin and he finds it to feel wonderful.

Hannibal draws a bucket instead, and uses the water and a sponge to ease the worst of the dust from his skin. Will does not feel embarrassed by his eagerness, the cool water feels far too good on his body. 

"I suddenly mind a return to slavery a little less," Will says.

Hannibal settles the wet sponge against Will's shoulders, washing dirt and old sweat attentively from his skin. The touch is as soft and attentive as the first that had passed between them.

"It will not be a permanent captivity," Hannibal promises, working the sponge over Will's neck. The motion is soothing, easing through him and slackening his muscles.

"Nor so hard to endure as Menelaus' ownership," Hannibal continues, fingers strong in their massaging motions. "Think of me more as your patron."

Will makes an uncertain sound, and Hannibal wrings out the sponge over him to wet Will's hair. He obliges himself by dipping himself entirely below the water to wet down his curls.

It may be a cage gilded in pleasant colors, with a kinder hand to feed him, but the danger without was greater.

He does not see that he has any course but to accept Hannibal's protection. There are others - he could stubbornly accept true imprisonment instead, but it was hardly a viable option for the long run. He would be held for at least the course of the war, and there was no guarantee that if he changed his mind, it would be allowed. barring that, Hannibal could refuse him then, if he was injured enough by Will's rejection.

"It's alright," Will decides at last.

Hannibal works soap gently into Will's hair, mindful of his eyes. His fingers find sweet spots on Will's scalp to rub, waiting until Will relaxes more before responding. 

"It will be," he promises.

Nails scratch pleasingly against Will's scalp, firing pleasurable impulses through his nerves. He begins to care less about the conversation and more about the pampering touches He leans into it, tilting his head back to look up into Hannibal's eyes. 

They are dark and intent, heavy lidded and focused. A light wakes somewhere in the depths when Will meets his eyes, an enjoyment at being sought for even so simple a contact.

Will tips his chin higher, until his head lays back in Hannibal's lap. Hannibal bends down to kiss him, pressing their mouths together at strange odds.

The angle leaves Will with the unexpected advantage, and he pushes his tongue against Hannibal's until the other responds to his eagerness. It turns from sweet to rough, earnest, an expression of all that has passed.

Hannibal has plush lips, a rough chin, and an internal heat that leaves his mouth hotter than Will's, a consuming, drinkable heat that transfers like a flame touched to timber. It ignites the wood pile of stress and uncertainty, of frustration and confusion and fear, and leaves a clear and inviting option for burning it all away.

Will reaches up to ease his fingers into Hannibal's hair, the strands soft when he touches them. After a few moments, Hannibal pulls away at last, joining Will in the water to settle on the submerged ledge next to him.

He tugs Will into his lap and Will settles comfortably against him caring little to play coy wh en they had already been far closer.

He has no promise of safety or freedom when this is over, but he never once has in his life. At least he has some chance of bettering his position - and Hannibal's hands on his skin were welcome, respectful. Still possessive but... reverent in his treatment.

Hannibal eases the knots from Will's shoulders, traces the lines of tension to either side of his spine. His fingers feather against Will's sides while his mouth works against Will's neck hotly.

Will resolves that he won't let Hannibal have the upper hand this time and turns in the general's arms to pin him against the side of the pool. He settles his knees on either side of Hannibal's lap. Will lifts each of Hannibal's hands by the wrist, pressing his mouth to the inside of each before he sets them deliberately along the edges of the pool, extended away from Will.

It is a clear instruction, if carefully unspoken. Will is curious if Hannibal will surrender enough control to play this game. For the moment, he stays as he was placed, hungry eyes trained waiting on Will.

He holds very still, permissive, and Will kisses him appreciatively.

His fingers trace paths along skin under the level of the water. It is a motion to learn, to memorize what he had never expected to be his for long. Hannibal's chest is firm, dark with hair in an alluring way. His nipples respond to Will's touch, harden quickly for his mouth.

He trails his fingers lower still, following the dusting of hair extending down Hannibal's belly, joining with the coarser strands below. Will takes his time there, too, teasing his fingers through short, rough curls, making light lines with his nails against the skin beneath.

"How long will you tease?" Hannibal breathes, his cock stirring to hardness beneath the cold water without Will having to touch directly.

"I wasn't aware of our rush," Will answers, mischief waking in him. "But I suppose as long as you'll let me."

He staves off further answer by curling his grip around Hannibal's erection and giving it a firm stroke. If there was a response, it fades behind Hannibal's indrawn breath.  
There has always been a certain amount of power in this - bringing pleasure to another, holding them to his pace. Will had never dared to delay too long with Menelaus, and after a time had never much cared to.

Hannibal lets him take charge with no protest, lifting his hands only to slide lower in the water, opening his knees wider beneath Will. His dark eyes close, his head tilts back in surrender, and Will closes his teeth lightly on it, finding it too tempting a target not to. Hannibal groans pleasurably, and Will strokes him beneath the water until Will can feel the fine tremor in his muscles.

For a time he lets them linger there, sitting above Hannibal and watching the changes that pleasure writes across Hannibal's features. His mouth eases into a soft, barely open shape that begs for the intrusion of Will's fingers. His brows crease in opposition to his slack mouth, his quick breaths.

Will can see his patience waning, see the slow coiling of pleasure and deliberately slows his pace to ease Hannibal back from the edge and see if he will try to seize control as his own.

Instead, Hannibal lifts his arms from the side of the pool - unbidden, but not to rush Will along. Instead, he settles them at Will's hips and brushes answering patterns of rhythm into Will's skin with his fingertips. 

Hannibal allows himself to be pushed to the edge and to be pulled back from it for many long minutes, until his skin is flushed pink despite the cool water Will works his hand beneath, and sweat stands out on his neck and forehead. His fingers are tighter at Will's hips then, his body moving in slow undulations as if Will were pulling a current through him.

"How long must I endure?" Hannibal wonders - it is not a demand, and Will laughs breathless at the tone of it. It is the sort of thing that should come from his own lips, the long endurance he was made and trained for - yet Menelaus had long since lost his fascination.

"Until you suggest us someplace better suited for more," Will decides, mischievous, triumphant.

Hannibal's groan is half growl.

"The bed-?" Will suggests, punctuating his question with an assertive stroke to scatter Hannibal's thoughts as he tries to answer.

Instead of putting it into words, Hannibal tightens his grip at Will's waist and lifts him from the water, half slinging him over one shoulder as he climbs from the pool, slipping in one dizzying moment on the wet stone floor.

Will clutches tight to his back while Hannibal recovers his balance. 

He sees far less of the sleep chamber this time, before Hannibal eases him down into the bed, cushions and soft down pulling Will deep until he is near drowning in it.

"The bed," Hannibal announces.

In spite of himself, Will laughs. It is far more than a suggestion. But Hannibal allows him to reverse their positions, and Will does not delay any longer to crouch and take Hannibal's hard cock into his mouth, thoughts of teasing gone.

He revels in the way Hannibal's nails catch against his scalp, his breath catches -holds - shudders out of him as Will plies his skill now without holding back. 

Hannibal's voice is a warning rumble, and Will ignores it, ignores how the nails go sharp on his scalp before Hannibal topples over the edge. It fills Will's mouth with the bitter-salt taste and eases his heart with the satisfaction of control when Hannibal goes utterly slack in the aftermath.

Will toys idly with Hannibal's hands, enjoying the utter lack of tension in the wrists and joints. 

He laces their fingers together until Hannibal remembers himself enough to voice a protest.

"How am I to return the favor?"

"In the morning, perhaps," Will suggests, gently teasing. "When you have recovered sufficiently."

He hisses the soft sounds of the words against Hannibal's skin, as if he had wounded Hannibal instead of simply pleasuring him.

"Such needles you lay against my pride," Hannibal answers, pulling Will up to kiss him. "Am I so unseasoned I must rest after every battle?"

The banter is sweet, warm and welcome as friendship. Will has not been so engaged in long enough to treasure the small war of words.

"Perhaps instead, so _seasoned_ you must rest after each," Will ventures, and a playful snarl answers, Hannibal's arms ensnaring Will as he flips him onto the bed.

"Experienced?" Will continues with his barbs.

"Enough for _this_ ," Hannibal agrees, curling his fingers around Will's flagging erection to rouse it back to hardness.

They lose the hours of darkness together, in sweet, enduring pleasure - some times easing into relief at surviving, sometimes forgetting everything but each other.

When Will settles at last against Hannibal's chest to sleep, wrung dry of pleasure and fear and everything but the singing memory of touch and release through his nerves, he has forgotten to fear his fate.

-

He remembers his uncertainty the next afternoon. Despite waking in a blissful, wonderfully sore and satisfied tangle with Hannibal, the contentment fades quickly when he remembers he is supposed to go before the king.

Dread settles deep in Will's belly, even as cool water rouses him, chasing the languor from his limbs mercilessly. Hannibal directs his servants adeptly, until they appear with a fine linen toga bordered in green and wrap it artfully over Will securing it neatly in the middle with a wide green sash.

He feels insignificantly small in it, dwarfed by a formality he has not known or needed in years. Menelaus had forbidden it, insisting Will wear a a servant's practical clothing. It had been a strange parallel to warn others off and yet Will's looks had clearly isolated him amongst those palace servants of less lofty positions.

Now, it feels strange to be groomed to play up his strengths rather than to hide his allure. Hannibal brushes Will's hair himself, wearing the purple-bordered toga of his office.

He looks nearly a stranger without the soldiers armor Will has grown accustomed to seeing him in. Yet, he supposes here they must play to the courts as men, and not as warriors.

"Don't shake so," Hannibal tells him. "You're telling the truth for men and gods to see. Your cause is worthy of a straight back and a lifted chin."

Will tries to take the words to heart. It is not as easily done as it is stated, but he does alter his posture as suggested. 

The walk from Hannibal's estate, massive amongst its neighbors but only a fraction the size of the palace, seems to last long, agonizing hours. Yet when they are seen into the clean, white halls of the palace, it is only an instant before they find themselves in the throne room.

King Priam is an imposing, wizened figure. He has nothing of Menelaus' softness, and none of Agamemnon's overwhelming power. Instead, the Trojan king favors his son, though age has thinned him, left him angular and severe.

"Be strong, little swan," Hannibal murmurs against Will's ear, before leaving him to stand alone, an island against the sea of the marble floor. 

He tries not to feel as if he is drowning in the air.

The world goes silent, expectant, as Will bows low and waits for the king to speak. The man's voice is creaking and rusted, suggesting a long sickness of the lungs, but it still holds the inarguable air of command. 

When Will begins to answer he finds it pours out of him, a long litany of his experiences that he had not expected to come forth. He must close his eyes, pretend only Hannibal listens, but the quiet surrounding him does not betray the illusion as fully untrue.

He is careful with details, uncertain how much of Hannibal's part to reveal, but it satisfies. When Will finishes - with the plan to steal him away that had clearly been a success, he dares to open his eyes and finds both king Priam and prince Paris studying him in grave consideration.

He wonders what they see - a slave? A liar? A pretty bird taught to sing what they would want to hear? 

Priam turns his look then upon Hannibal, and Will ceases to exist as an individual for him, becoming merely another slave, another captured spartan. 

"Will they make war to retrieve him?" Priam rasps, his eyes attentive behind the pale film of age.

"They will make it on any excuse made or offered or invented," Hannibal answers mildly. "And it is unlikely they truly care for Will's return." 

"And our attempts at peace?"

"Were not seen as entirely genuine," Hannibal reminds, tucking his hands behind his back in a soldiers rest. His gaze slides toward Paris then, perhaps in indication of cause - or request for affirmation. 

"I suppose we would not be," Priam answers.

He considers in quiet for a long moment. Then his attention comes slowly to focus on Will, attuning to his presence again. Will feels suddenly that he cannot belong here. 

"Imprison the boy," Priam decides, harshly. "For his safety and ours, isolation is best."

Will's heart sinks like a stone, his hands finding tense holds in the folds of his toga. 

For a moment, he is certain it will happen. Guards step forward, men shift out of the way, and then Hannibal steps up beside him.

Instead of cold irons on his wrists, a steading hand at his elbow.

"I'll take charge of him," Hannibal asserts.

Priam tilts his chin up, disliking having to amend himself. His eyes are hard and regal, ascendant to that plane of judgment that kings hold sway over.

It is Paris who breaks the tension with a smile that isn't kind, exactly, but favorable.

"He has come this far for Hannibal's charms, father. Let him endure them as long as he likes." Paris' tone is amused, dark. Will cannot comprehend its meaning.

Priam waves a dismissive hand and Will is resigned to fate, seen from the room now that his purpose was served.

It leaves him dizzied, but relieved, to be returned to Hannibal's estate. He takes his time through the orchards and gardens on this trip. Though his escort grumbles some, Will pauses beneath a pear tree, soliciting the soldiers help to pull two down so Will can carry them with him.

Later, he and Hannibal will share, though it will not be as sweet as stolen fruit.

-

The End

**Author's Note:**

> -This piece is written as part of the Hannibal-ACCA charity drive, for a prompt I was given.  
> -Obviously some liberties are taken in restructuring the myth. I was asked to do a few specific things, and you see the results.  
> -Hannibal is not a Greek name nor is it period accurate to this stage of pre-prehistory. I let him keep it anyway.  
> -Helen is actually the offspring produced by Leda, from her swan lover (supposedly Zeus). I went with it, because it's a humanizing touch, a mother that insisted on some flight of fancy rather than face the reality that she was probably raped. And also, this amused me due to Hannibal's choice of dining room adornments.  
> -There are two more chapters, one of which is done (bringing the total to something like 12k), and I will post in a week or so. The third chapter is going to have to wait - it'll be breaking the limit I said I'd write for ACCA and I have 2 pieces to complete for the August-September round, plus Lagbrotna. I promise I have started it and after I wrap up the other 2 pieces, the conclusion for this will appear. Thank you for your patience!


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